Beyond Imagination: The Intellect (Neuphobes Book 2)

by Thomas Zman

  “Help?” I wondered aloud. Who in this family? The only one who knows programming around here is me – something that I was quite proud of having earned my Master’s in, though as of yet was to put it to any real monetizing use.

  “No need to think about that, now,” he consoled me. “I am speaking to you as your loving grandfather. I feel it is time for you to enter an endeavor that we have simply come to call: The Intellect. You’ve been wayward now far long enough and I, We – need your assistance.” Grandpa paused awkwardly again, then continued: “I have spent the entirety of my later years preparing this house for its predestined function . . . And now you have been chosen, by My Authority, to advance and become part of it. Are you willing to trust me? Your own grandfather? Remember, ‘Family Loyalty’!”

  “Well, sure Grandpa,” my mind was swirling, still unsure if all this wasn’t some sort of Cyber-Joke. “But what am I supposed to do?” I felt very unsure of my agreeing – yet something deep within drove me.

  “Start by rebooting your primary system and clicking on the link that I send you. It is the first step in a series of commands that must be followed precisely in order to access The Portal.”

  “Portal?”

  Grandfather said nothing. I did as he instructed. I rebooted my primary system, entered the appropriate commands into it, and then minimized my grandfather’s picture to further the chain of instructions listed on my Secondary System. One of the final steps in the litany of such was to turn the dimmer knob on my bedroom wall to a specific Fibonacci Ratio, then push a button next to my window. I had always thought it was just for show, but this time it actually worked, and immediately an opaque blind slid down, totally closing me off from the outside world.

  I sat back down at my computer and studied the final code that had arisen, blinking: I moussed over it and pressed ENTER. The entire room hummed ever so slightly as distant gears meshed beneath me, in the thick of the ceiling downstairs. My beloved Captains’ Bed, the sleep sanctuary of my past twenty-five years, began to lift at its mid point, opening as if a large mouth waiting to devour. Beneath it the floor had slid back, revealing a lighted stairway, which must have ran along inside an old pantry in the kitchen downstairs and an outside wall; the second story of this house cantilevered out over the first by nearly two feet.

  It all seemed unbelievable. But then I thought back to my childhood, and all the secretive projects that grandpa was always working on, in and around the house. It was now obvious as to what he had devoted all that time to. But how could he have kept this from us? But then again, Father was often gone for days/weeks at a time. Angela was very young, and mother? Well . . . I guess . . .

  I turned on an Internet Documentary overladen with music and cautiously ventured down the stairs.

  Chapter Two

  Portal One

  “Hi Grandpa,” I remembered saying as a child, walking around the corner of the house.

  “How’s my little whipper-snapper today?” greeted Grandpa with a smile, paintbrush in hand. “So, what do you think?”

  “Looks great!” I said, eyeing over the workmanship that he had proudly spent the past year on. The entire back of the house had been remodeled, extended out over the dilapidated old porch, and finished it off, matching the original architecture. A new back door and small stoop had also been added.

  “Just this final coat of paint and the outside is done! Then I’ll set to work on the inside. And wait until you see what I have in store for you, young man!” Grandpa’s attention focused on a giant tree limb that, for years, had lain untouched on the side of the yard. “How would you like a new bed?” His eyes grew wide.

  “I’ll make you something they call a ‘Captain’s Bed’.” He saluted me -- “Ahoy, Captain James” -- then tickled my belly. We both laughed.

  That memory played over in my mind as I descended the steep stairway under my bed. Grandpa’s renovating of this house must have been his way of dealing with grandma’s passing (the family secret: she just was no longer with us) In near reaching the bottom of the stairway I passed into what felt like a resistance, a density like that of walking through water. I kept my line of sight, which at first became blurred, but then returned to clarity as I moved forward; as too did thin the resistance through which I walked. Before me appeared, what could only be described as surreal, for the whole of the landing step had opened up to the house’s old back porch. I grasped the dilapidated railing, the one I remembered as a child. Upon touching it I instantly sensed a tingle, yet felt comforted, confident, realizing everything was as it had once been during that secure time of my life . . . during my childhood.

  The air was still and dark beyond the porch, yet I left the bizarre familiarity of the railing to wander a few more steps, unafraid, into the darkness. Several steps in and the darkness began to lighten, slowly, as all then around me swirled . . . swooned was a better description. Moving ahead, still further, it was the blink of an eye and I stood amidst a large, well-lighted complex with people milling about it. They were all dressed in silver jumpsuits, all carrying computer pads, all talking into small micro phoned headsets.

  “Greetings, James,” a tall slender woman strode up to me from across open floor, her sharp voice entertaining a Northern European patois. Her eyes, blue, were heavily mascaraed and sparklingly feathered, tapering to a point of orientalism. Her dark skin was flawless, tight, and smooth; her long hair pulled back, coiled into a bun. “I am Veetra. Senior Rank, here at Portal One.” She looked me over, appraisingly. “We welcome your services to the Intellect.” She was human -- but not of our time. “I have a delivery of fiber optics scheduled for pick up at a Rendezvous Point: twenty-two hundred hours. Can I count on your transporting them from the local depot?”

  It felt like a dream. Was it? Ten minutes ago, I was sitting in my room, playing on my computer – now I’m . . . where?

  “We realize this is far too much from your reality,” Veetra sympathized, though continued to stare at – through me. What did she mean by port? Airport? . . . I didn’t know what to think of this place.”

  “James, can we count on you?” Veetra repeated, her penetrating stare seemingly instilling a link of trustworthiness into my mind.

  “Do as she asks,” Grandfather’s voice came clear to me.

  “S-sure,” I accepted with uncertainty.

  Veetra’s features twitched, doubting my sincerity. “The truck will be loaded and waiting. These are the coordinates and necessary manifests.” She handed me a computer tablet; folded inside it, the paperwork. A rush of excitement raced through me. “You’ll be one of seven that meet at the designated location: The Rendezvous; a ‘return car’ will also be present.”

  “I’m on it,” I said, attaining a sudden influx of confidence. With no other words she turned from me and strode away. I looked past her, over at the vast Control Center: its complexity awe-inspiring. Scores of people worked behind enhanced computer terminals, large sliding clear-boards with complicated markings across them, and video screens by the score. This entire facility was lying under my back yard? Had I entered a Parallel Dimension? Video Game stuff!

  Fascination grasped at the roots of my being. Grandfather must have come to learn of this as a child -- from that big storm he always referred back to. That storm must have something to do with this place -- must have created a portal. The old railing that I touched, it had been struck by lightning; Grandpa had always said that it was burned . . . Speaking of Grandpa, his battery must be all charged by now.

  I tucked the tablet under my arm. Across the floor I spotted my house’s old back porch and headed towards it. Back through the murkiness I went, through a current of sorts -- through what must have been the flux of time -- and headed back up the stairs to my bedroom. Halfway up I began to hear the sounds from my computer, my covering sounds. Once up I looked over to my bedroom door. It was still locked. I then moussed over a sequence on the computer screen and my bed lowered back into place, inconspicuously, concea
ling the secret stairway, and all that lie beneath it.

  The Grandfather Clock, displayed fittingly in the corner our finely decorated living room, was just finishing its noontime toll; slow and rhythmic. Mother stood at the entrance to the dining room, next to the mini bar. “Are you working tonight?” she asked as I uncoupled the charger from the back of grandpa’s chair, my mind reeling from what I had just experienced. Grand had apparently slipped into a nap while I was away.

  “Yes,” I answered, her question startling me back to the moment. “I’ll be going in early, though,” . . . I was formulating a plan to cover my Rendezvous. My God, I couldn’t believe I was thinking like that. It would take a good hour’s ride to get to the port –The Region’s Local International Airport, I came to discover, having quickly glanced through the paperwork. I would get a ride there from Uber (which was great for this sort of thing) then log in through security at the Cargo Terminal, and drive the truck to . . . now where was I going? I had to check on that later. Turn-by-turn directions were stored in the tablet issued me . . .

  “We’re getting extra deliveries at the store tonight and they need the manpower to unload the trucks,” I came back to our conversation. “You know, seasonal stuff – spring is just around the corner. Should be a lot of extra hours coming my way.”

  . . . I just drive the truck. Do I know how to drive a truck? Yes. I’ve maneuvered plenty of them around the back lot at the store. Probably not a big truck, anyway. Drop it off at the Rendezvous Point – Where was this Rendezvous, anyway? And just how do I get my ass back to the store to start my shift? Right -- a loaner car will be waiting for me at the Rendezvous. How far was this place? I’ll have to call the store and tell them I’ll be late tonight – timing was everything in life . . .

  “That’s nice, dear,” Mom responded in her usual singsong manner. “A little something extra in your pay, right?” Mom was helping herself to another glass of wine. “With all this extra time you put in they should promote you to manager.”

  “That would raise your salary to just under the poverty line right, Jimmy?” my sister chimed in, she too now drinking.

  “Yes,” I responded to her sarcasm. “The place where you send people after your ‘efficiency analysis’.”

  “Did I hear ‘efficiency’?” my dad had just walked in through the front door.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” said Mom. “We weren’t expecting you until later this afternoon.” She sipped from her glass, and then hurried to set another place at the table.

  “I took an early flight,” said my dad, who was tall, very thin, and balding; perhaps I should say tightly trimmed, since he kept his hair closely cropped. His teeth were white and perfectly straight. ‘When you talk as much as I do,’ He would always say, ‘you want to make sure your mouth is attractive. You want your audience to hang onto your every word.’

  “How was Cupertino?” asked Grandpa, electronically, suddenly awakened.

  “All I can say, ‘there’s no place like home’.”

  “And we’re glad you’re here,” said Angela.

  And, I agreed.

  “Lunch is ready,” called mom from the dining room.

  “I brought wine.” Dad opened his shoulder satchel and produced two bottles. “Best part of the west,” he commented, handing the bottles to Angela, and kissing her, and then everyone in the room. “Just need to drop my things upstairs,” he said, then made his way to the stairs. “Evvie, my dear!” he exclaimed as she entered the room.

  “Welcome home Mr. V,” she said with the usual pip to her voice. She had gathered up behind Grandpa. “Let’s get you over to the dining room, shall we.”

  “I’ll manage on my own, just give me some time,” replied Grandpa. The tiny electric motors whirred in Grandpa’s wheelchair as he operated the high-tech mobilizer. He was quite proficient at such, having been bound to this lifestyle for some twenty years already.

  It was the summer before 9/11. Grandpa hadn’t been himself for days, very languid. The doctor said it was just old age catching up with him, that he needed to start taking it easy. But one afternoon my mother found him sleeping, outback in the yard. Grandpa never took naps. He was in a hammock, over in the far corner under the shade of a maple tree. Mother went to check on him. At first, she thought he had peacefully passed, died there on a beautiful sunny day. She nervously checked his vitals and found that he was still with us, though unresponsive. The police and ambulances respond; it was quite a frightful afternoon.

  It wasn’t until after a myriad of examinations by specialists transpiring over a period of several days, that tests confirmed our grandpa had had a debilitating stroke. He lost all use of his extremities – except for the movement of his eyes. My God. Trapped within his body –fully cognizant of the world around him, though no means by which to physically involve himself in it.

  The family was all sitting down. Mother had just served up the pasta after Dad’s saying of grace when I felt a buzz in my hip pocket, no doubt the Uber driver confirming my ride for the afternoon. With the “Amen” having been said we all began our meal and Dad told of his latest exploits in California, Angie hanging onto his every word. Mother dutifully made sure we all had heaping amounts on our plates, with bread; save for Grandpa, who was unfortunately fed by alternate means. Yet Grandpa was still able to enjoy the meal, for my mother, with the help of Evvie, would carefully place small amounts of sauce, and then wine, into his mouth for a ‘taste’. It had all become quite routine in our household. And while my family was busy conversing amongst themselves, I sat quietly, my mind slipping, thinking of the evening’s Rendezvous.

  “James,” Mother summoned me from dawdling. “You had said you were going in early today,” she was trying to draw me into the conversation; pouring herself another glass of wine.

  “Yes, probably at seven. Spring deliveries,” I replied, reflexively; years of retail having quite nullified me. “The warehouse is shipping more merchandise than we can sell. They expect us to store all this stuff in our backrooms and then pile it up on already crammed displays -- “

  “You know, James,” began my father. “I have a long standing consulting contract with Veetum Corporation. They have been finding it difficult to fill a logistics position, open now for some time…,” my dad suggested – again. Uncomfortably, this conversation seems to always make its appearance whenever we’d sit down for a meal.

  “James is quite content in his endeavors,” Grandpa said. “I believe he’s developing a new on-line game, quite different from anything on the market. Isn’t that so, James?” Evvie was dappling a napkin at the corner of Grandpa’s mouth; a little sauce had collected there.

  “Yes,” I perked up; dismissing all the semi-completed projects I’d abandoned over the years. “This latest App I’m working on is setting the stage for something really big. Just need to fill in the blanks on it a little more.” I was hoping Grandpa understood my coded enthusiasm; I needed to speak with him privately.

  Grandpa repeated my phrase, ‘Really Big’, then recounted, “I thoroughly understand your enthusiasm, James. Besides, not everyone in this world is meant to manage,” there was a crackle of static from his voice modulator. “If everyone were a manager, a sales executive, or CEO, who then would there be left to do the real work?”

  “Robots,” Angie chimed in. “Which is where I’m thinking of transferring. I just got an e-mail from Roctek Industries . . .”

  * * *

  The long avenue my Uber driver took me down was new to me. I was accustomed to entering the airport property through the passenger terminal, not the back lots of the freight express carriers. It was on the outskirts of the airport that she’d dropped me off, in front of one of the main cargo offices in the midst of the compound, where rows of trucks of various sizes lined the perimeter, off from the expansive warehouses. I went inside the office terminal and was affably greeted by a cleverly dressed clerk. I presented the paperwork I had been given and was quickly processed, then
shuttled to the corresponding trucking area. Once there, I was checked in via my tablet and driver’s credentials, which were also provided me, and escorted to my awaiting truck. All very efficient. No wonder this company was top in its field.

  I rolled up the back of the little white box-truck, the purple and orange lettering prominent on its exterior, and checked the merchandise inside. It was all neatly loaded – not that I actually knew what I was looking at – and I signed off on the matter. I then hopped into the vehicle’s cramped cab, which appeared simple enough to drive -- automatic and all that -- and began my journey out of the airport, on my way to the Rendezvous Site. I had to admit that I rather liked this little operation . . .

  That was until I saw flashing red lights coming up behind me in my rearview mirror. My stomach knotted and my mind raced as to what would be found if they thoroughly searched this vehicle – for I had no idea as to what I may actually have been transporting. Was it fiber optics? Or some sinister contraband that one read about only in spy novels?

  I was just slowing down, easing my way over to the shoulder, when the police car pulled out from behind me and sped around past – lights and siren blaring. I breathed a tremendous sigh of relief, and wiped the sweat from my forehead. However, the incident had left me with a sick feeling in my stomach, and it would take the remainder of the drive to relieve me of it.

  Thirty minutes later I exited the truck from the highway and onto a secondary route. After a short distance I turned down a narrow tree lined street, and then onto a secluded gravel drive, towering thick shrubbery on both sides. I drove slowly, my headlights showing the way, as too did the waning moon overhead. I turned one final time and passed through a dilapidated archway of ivy-encrusted brickwork, onto an abandoned dirt path several hundred feet in length, onto what must have once been the grounds of a rambling old estate. Ahead, quite a ways distant, I could scarcely decipher the outline of an abandoned house, mansion -- for it was quite an imposing domicile. In front of it were the faint lights of the other trucks, parked on the large front lawn; all of them positioned face-out, leaving quite a large space open at the center behind them.